Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact

by Alison Goodman

  She stopped and scanned the street. He had disappeared again. Was he taunting her?

  The Duke reached her side, his eyes alight with the chase. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I will find him for you.’ He pressed his hat down more firmly, clearly intending to pursue the Deceiver.

  ‘No!’ She caught his arm, realising too late she had done so with her full strength. He stared down at her iron grip, astonishment quickly turning into a grimace of pain. She snatched back her hand. ‘Please do not concern yourself, Your Grace. It is nothing.’

  He stared at her, rubbing his forearm. ‘Nothing?’ He lowered his voice, casting a glance around the crowd that had gathered to watch such odd behaviour. ‘Forgive me, but it is clearly something. You did the same thing at Hyde Park: suddenly you were running towards the runaway horse as if to stop it. Now you are running towards a man in a public place. What is going on?’

  ‘It is nothing,’ she repeated. ‘Just a foolish notion.’

  ‘No, you are in some kind of trouble,’ he said slowly. ‘My dear, can you not trust me?’

  A commotion parted the curious crowd.

  ‘Let me through,’ Lady Margaret demanded. ‘Oh, Lady Helen, you poor child,’ she said loudly, ‘you are overcome.’ She pressed a hand against Helen’s forehead. ‘Yes, too much sun and excitement, I fear. We must return home immediately. Miss Cransdon, would you please help me take Lady Helen to a sedan chair?’ She turned a dazzling smile upon the Duke. ‘Thank you for your kind concern, Your Grace. Lady Helen is still not fully recovered from her riding accident.’

  Sensing an end to the excitement, many of the onlookers began to move away. It was a well-known fact, Helen heard someone murmur, that too much sun was indeed dangerous to a weakened constitution.

  Lady Margaret and Delia each took one of Helen’s arms. ‘For God’s sake, pretend you are ill,’ Lady Margaret hissed as they steered her towards the waiting sedan chairs outside the Castle Tavern.

  Helen looked back at the Duke, standing alone on the path. He was still holding his forearm, a perplexed frown upon his face.

  It was not a happy return to the German Place drawing room. Although Helen explained that she had seen Philip again, that the Deceiver had actually tipped his hat to her in some kind of sly taunt, Lady Margaret was not diverted from her wrath. Apparently she’d had her own plan to meet a trusted informer at the promenade, which had been ruined by Helen’s bad judgment and reckless behaviour. Not only that: Helen had drawn attention to herself in exactly the way that his lordship had ordered them to avoid.

  Delia attempted a staunch defence, arguing that surely the retrieval of the Colligat was of the utmost importance, but in the end Lady Margaret’s accusations were more or less true. Helen waited out the harangue, then escaped to her bedchamber with the packet of letters still crumpled in her hand.

  The worst of it, she thought, as she carried her night candle to the writing desk, was the Duke’s involvement. He was now convinced something was amiss, and she knew he would not give up until he discovered the truth. All her attempts to keep him safe had just placed him in more danger — from Lord Carlston, and possibly now the Deceiver world. On top of that, she had accidentally injured him.

  She bowed her head. Dear God, please let his arm be only bruised and not broken.

  The sound of footsteps in the next room lifted her head.

  ‘Do you need anything, my lady?’ Darby asked from the dressing room doorway, her voice soft with sympathy. Bad news travelled very fast in the house. ‘Did you wish to undress for bed now?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

  Darby curtseyed and withdrew.

  Helen took a seat at the desk and picked up the packet from Andrew. She drew a fortifying breath and worked her thumbnail under the wax seal, breaking it with a snap. Two letters were folded within: a thin missive with her name across the front in her brother’s slanted scrawl, and a fatter packet in her aunt’s neat hand.

  The angriest first. She broke the seal on her brother’s letter and unfolded it. One paragraph, and another paper tucked inside. She slid the enclosure onto the desk and angled the letter to the candlelight.

  The Albany, Sunday, 12th July, 1812

  Dear Helen,

  I have taken Selburn’s advice and will not visit you in Brighton. I urge you, however, to note his careful protection of your well-being and to reconsider your decision regarding his proposal. He is still keen — God knows why after your treatment of him — and he has my and, more importantly, Uncle’s blessing. Frankly, Sprite, you are a fool if you do not take him. Enclosed is a draft on my bank account until September. Aunt has writ too, against Uncle’s wishes, so don’t write back. He’ll just burn it and she’ll have the devil to pay.

  Your brother,

  Andrew

  Helen bit her lip. Andrew disliked putting pen to paper, and for him to actually set down his disgust in ink meant he was very angry indeed.

  She picked up the bank draft: authorised for three months. A clear message that she was to come to her senses by the end of summer. Well, she could not afford to refuse the offering. She had left London with only pin money in her purse and that was almost gone.

  She turned her attention to the other packet. As she unfolded it, two ten-pound notes dropped onto the desk, bringing a sudden sob into her throat. Dear Aunt; so brave to have written a letter and enclosed money against Uncle’s orders.

  The missive was full of lighthearted gossip, not a word of reproof, and Helen could almost feel herself back at Half Moon Street, listening to her aunt in the drawing room, each at their sewing. There was nothing of great consequence in the closely written lines until she came to a paragraph near the end:

  I do not know if the news has yet reached Brighton, but your dear friend Millicent Gardwell is betrothed to Lord Holbridge. Such an excellent match, but then she does have enough countenance and connection to overcome her lack of fortune. They are, I believe, planning a winter wedding and she has asked if she may send a letter to you in Brighton. Have you not written to her, my dear? Do so directly, for I am sure she would wish you to witness the nuptials.

  Helen pressed the heels of her hands against her wet eyes. Such happy news. Millicent and the Viscount would do well together; her decisive nature would complement his easy good humour. Sniffing back her ridiculous sentimentality, Helen opened the secretaire drawer, searching for paper. Millicent had always wanted to marry quickly and well, and now she had got her wish. Helen paused in her search, remembering their conversations about marriage: their adamant agreement that they must at least like their husbands, that a house in London was absolutely essential, and that if a son came first, three children were enough.

  The warm recollection shifted abruptly into a stark realisation. Unlike Millicent, she would never have a husband or the chance of children. Of course she had known that before she’d read Aunt’s letter but now it felt brutally real. She had signed a different kind of vow and there could be no place for a family within it.

  Helen scrubbed at her eyes. There was no value in self-pity. Best to forge onward. She pulled out a clean piece of paper and reached for the inkwell, then stopped again, an even worse realisation hollowing her heart.

  She could write to Millicent and wish her well, but that was all. She could not risk attending her friend’s wedding, or even visiting. If the day’s events had shown her anything, it was that wherever she went, the danger of the Deceivers followed. She would not expose Millicent, or anyone else she loved, to that world. Even if that meant never seeing them again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  TUESDAY, 14 JULY 1812

  The next day at breakfast, two letters arrived in the morning post: one from London for Lady Margaret; and the other, hand-delivered, for Helen. For a heart-stopping instant, Helen thought the thrice-folded note on Garner’s silver salver might be from Martha Gunn. Then the butler bowed and offered her the slim packet, and she recognised the writing across the front: th
e Duke of Selburn’s hand. It would seem Lowry had decided to stay away from Brighton until the full moon; or perhaps he was just better at hiding from them than they were at finding him.

  She picked up the Duke’s letter and broke the seal. If he was writing, then at least his arm was not broken, she thought gratefully as she unfolded the single page.

  Grand Parade, Brighton, Tuesday, 14th July, 1812

  Dear Lady Helen,

  After yesterday’s events, I feel I must speak to you. Please, do me the honour of driving with me this afternoon. I would be most obliged.

  Yrs, etc,

  Selburn

  Helen folded the note again, ignoring the unabashed curiosity on Delia’s face. The Duke’s persistence was far too dangerous. She had tried polite refusal and blunt request. It was time for blatant discourtesy. A curt note then, and if ever they met, she would have to deliver a cut-direct: pretend he did not even exist. It would hurt him greatly, and her too, but it had to be done. For his own protection.

  ‘Lowry is here,’ Lady Margaret said, looking up from her own letter. She passed it across the table to Helen. ‘From my brother.’

  St James’s Square, Monday, 13th July, 1812

  Dear Margaret,

  According to his lordship’s sources, Lowry is in the vicinity of Brighton. A most frustrating outcome, but at least we now have information to follow. His lordship asks that you instruct our informants in the area to search out any clues as to his location. We return with every expediency.

  Yr affectionate brother,

  Michael

  Helen kept her eyes on the note, composing her expression. She had hoped Mr Hammond would have been able to hold Lord Carlston in London until the following week.

  ‘A strange coincidence that Lowry is hereabouts,’ she said, looking up with a careful frown.

  ‘The coincidence, I think, lies in Mr Pike and Mr Stokes being here as well, and I would wager that is no coincidence at all,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘They are after the journal too.’

  Helen nodded thoughtfully, her heart beating harder. Lady Margaret was too clever by half; and his lordship would have come to the same conclusion.

  Delia put down her teacup. ‘How annoying for Lord Carlston and Mr Hammond to go all the way to London just to discover that.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lady Margaret replied, her voice clipped.

  ‘I will send a note to Martha Gunn,’ Helen said quickly. ‘To keep a lookout for Lowry.’ Not to mention to cover the fact that the old dipper already knew they were looking for him.

  Lady Margaret nodded. ‘Good idea. I will contact my people too.’

  ‘I know I am very new amongst you,’ Delia said hesitantly, ‘but there is something that puzzles me.’

  ‘What is it?’ Helen asked.

  ‘If his lordship does find the journal, is it really the best course of action to take it to a Deceiver?’ Delia looked from Helen to Lady Margaret, her fine brows lifted in inquiry. ‘From what you have told me, deception is an integral part of a Deceiver’s nature. His lordship seems to be relying upon the word of the Comte d’Antraigues that his sickness is not just the vestige madness. He is also relying upon the Comte for the cure. I know this is an awful question, but is it possible that his lordship is in fact suffering from the vestige madness, and the Comte is using his lordship’s desperation to obtain the journal for his own purposes?’

  The clock in the breakfast room ticked through the silence. Helen chewed her lip. Delia had voiced Lady Margaret’s doubts, and her own dread.

  Lady Margaret smoothed out her brother’s note, the plane of her fingers across the paper like the switch of a cat’s tail. ‘His lordship has dealt with the Comte d’Antraigues for many years, Miss Cransdon. He is well able to judge if the Comte will keep his word.’

  Helen looked down at her plate, remembering that flash of desperate fear in Lord Carlston’s eyes before they had met with the Comte.

  ‘But is he?’ Delia pressed. ‘If he is suffering the vestige madness, can you be sure his judgment is unimpaired? Surely it would be a dire situation if the journal fell into the hands of a Deceiver? If Mr Pike and Mr Stokes are also here to obtain it, should it not be given to them?’

  ‘You have no idea what you are talking about,’ Lady Margaret said coldly. ‘I have been his lordship’s aide for many years and his judgment is as sound and brilliant as ever. If he does not think the journal should go to Pike, then it should not. He will have his reasons. He always has his reasons.’

  Not the opinion she had whispered to her brother in the foyer, Helen thought. Was she lying to herself now as well as to them?

  ‘I did not mean to impugn—’ Delia began, but Helen shook her head a fraction, stopping her.

  Lady Margaret signalled to Garner, who pulled out her chair as she stood. ‘The Dark Days Club is a small group facing an overwhelming enemy, Miss Cransdon. We do not need doubt or dissension within our ranks.’ She picked up her brother’s letter.

  ‘The Dark Days Club is not just Lord Carlston,’ Helen said. Her own confused loyalties speaking perhaps, but it was the truth.

  ‘No, Lord Carlston is the Dark Days Club, Lady Helen. Without him, it is little more than a disparate group of thugs under the control of a bitter and power-hungry bureaucrat.’ Lady Margaret’s usual composure was replaced by sudden heat. ‘The only other honourable man amongst them is Stokes, and he does not have the subtlety or vision to lead such a group. Look what happened when his lordship was in exile.’ She jabbed the air between them, punctuating each word. ‘Benchley: that is what happened! What is more, he happened under Pike’s watch.’

  That was true, and now Pike was adamant that it would not happen again.

  ‘But what if his lordship is heading the same way as Benchley?’ Helen demanded. There, she had said it. ‘What if Delia is right and the Comte is lying about a cure?’

  ‘The seeds of Benchley’s savagery were sown well before he descended into madness, Lady Helen. To even think his lordship could become such a thing is …’ Lady Margaret paused and shook her head in disbelief, ‘a heinous suggestion.’

  ‘I must think it, if only to stop any possibility of it coming about,’ Helen said.

  ‘If you truly knew him like I do, you would not even think it a possibility. You would know he was incapable of that kind of mindless violence. You may be a Reclaimer like him, and perhaps his eyes do follow you, but he knows it is I who will always stand by him. He knows it!’

  On that, she turned, her brother’s letter crushed in her hand. Garner quickly opened the door and she walked out, her usual gliding step locked into a stiff march. The butler closed the door again, his face carefully blank.

  ‘Lud!’ Delia said, slumping back in her chair. ‘She is in a vile mood. Did you hear her say his lordship’s eyes follow you? Maybe that is what has made her so angry.’

  Helen had indeed heard the comment, but Delia was missing the truth of Lady Margaret’s outburst.

  ‘I do not think she is angry,’ she said slowly. ‘I think she is afraid.’

  It took far longer for Helen to write her reply to the Duke than she had expected. Writing a polite letter was easy; writing a purposely rude letter designed to end a friendship was a far more difficult proposition. In the end, her note was as brief as his own: a refusal of his invitation to drive, a request to no longer importune her with invitations or correspondence, and a very abrupt final statement: I do not wish to further our acquaintance.

  She bowed her head over the completed letter. It was as rude and ugly as the fear that hammered in her heart for him.

  ‘For God’s sake, stay away,’ she whispered over it. ‘For your own good.’

  She sealed it and rang for Geoffrey.

  ‘Deliver it immediately,’ she said. ‘I do not require an answer.’

  A few hours later, Delia stood in the doorway of the drawing room, swinging her closed parasol by its bamboo handle. She had changed into a walking gown — pale blue muslin w
ith the shorter hem trimmed with red bows — and a straw-chip hat that she had tied jauntily over one eye with its matching red ribbons.

  ‘Are you sure you will not come?’ she asked Helen. ‘At this time of morning Donaldson’s is quite abuzz.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘I really must study.’ She shifted her legs beneath the heavy edition of Elements of Alchemy, In a New Systematic Order, Containing All the Modern Discoveries. It was crushing her own muslin gown. The weight of knowledge, she thought wryly.

  ‘Please, Helen,’ Delia dropped her voice, ‘do not leave me alone with Lady Margaret. She is like a bear with a sore head.’

  ‘You may stay here with me.’ It was not what she wanted, but she had to make the offer.

  ‘No, I can see you are set upon your books.’ Delia sighed. ‘Perhaps Lady Margaret’s informer will have news and improve her mood.’

  Alone again, Helen returned to her reading. In a canon of boring texts, this had to be one of the worst. Nevertheless, she had to understand the interactions between alchemical elements, and it was a relief of sorts to step away from the turmoil of her mind to focus upon the stolid text.

  As she read, she heard Delia and Lady Margaret leave the house; the creak of the hanging hessian sack and the murmur of voices as Darby and Quinn trained in the salon above; and the return of Geoffrey from his errand. The footman’s cheery hail to the kitchen girls brought Helen’s head up from the book and she found herself watching the drawing room door, waiting to see if there was in fact an answer from the Duke. No footsteps ascended the staircase and the door did not open.

  She forced herself to return to the grim description of the combustible nature of phosphorus, otherwise known as the Devil’s Element. Apparently, when ignited and in contact with skin, it burned without end. Like lies, Helen thought, searing an ever-bright sore through the soul. Burning even when in the service of a sacred oath.